It was only 5:45 AM.
The sky outside still wore its dusky veil, not quite night, not yet morning. The sun hadn't even peeked over the horizon..The world was quiet.A coolness lingered in the air brushing softly through the slightly ajar window.. Somewhere, a bird chirped once and then went quiet again, as if even nature hadn't fully woken up yet.
He had just stepped into his room after finishing his gym session-a daily ritual that began sharply at 4 AM & sometimes even earlier..Two solid hours of intensity, sweat, discipline..He barely slept much anyway—never needed to. So rising early was never a challenge.
He had just unhooked the towel from his neck & was heading to the shower when-
Knock.
He halted mid-step.
A frown crept onto his face. Who could possibly be at the door this early?
Another knock, firmer this time.
He turned toward the door, confused but curious.The sensor outside flickered softly, revealing the visitor.
Badi Dadi.
Not someone he expected...or really ever expected here.
He paused.
Actually, She wasn't rude to him, but she wasn't warm either. Her words were oftenly cold..But it wasn't because he was the "black sheep" or some disappointment. It was because of what had happened.
Once.
Long ago.
Something neither of them ever brought up, but it still hung between them. A wound stitched shut on the surface, but aching underneath whenever they crossed paths.
Even now, standing outside his room at an unearthly hour—her presence tightened something in his chest— a thread of nervousness & even a faint warmth at seeing her though he'd never admit it out loud..
Strange
How a part of him still wanted her to knock.
Still wanted to be seen by her. Wanted the wall between them to break, even just a little.
His hand reached for the doorknob.Then—
It struck him—She was still in the closet.
He froze.
His gaze shifted to the panel concealing the closet door. If she found out—even if she suspected, it would only lead to unnecessary complications or problems..The kind he didn't want to deal with right now.He wasn't someone people questioned. Never had been.
It wasn't about arrogance—just the way things were.Especially with her.
She was his badi-dadi. There was respect, always had been.But between them, things hadn't been the same for a long time.A quiet distance had taken its place.Not open conflict.Just...space. And they preferred to keep it that way..
Knock grew louder..
He looked back at the main door then at the closet.
Without a second thought, he spun around & stalked across the room toward the closet, his heartbeat suddenly much louder than any knock at the door.Every step he took toward her seemed to echo through the silence, and the weight of his unspoken urgency pressed down on him.
When he entered the closet, the little sanctuary she had built for herself caught his attention..The cozy space, tucked away in her quiet world...She lay there, curled into herself, wrapped snugly in the blanket like a cocoon, her face half-buried in the pillow. A few strands of her hair clung to her cheek, painting a picture of stillness he didn't have time to admire. The soft scent of her—jasmine mixed with something warm and earthy hung faintly in the air, pulling at his senses even as pressure coiled tighter in his chest.
He stepped closer, his breath catching slightly. She looked so untouched by reality. So still. So stupidly peaceful. The way she seemed to sink into the bed oblivious to the world said everything that she is a heavy sleeper..
"Rida," he said low, voice already rough, already strained. "Wake up"
But she didn't move.
No flutter of lashes. No drowsy murmur. Not even a grunt or a sleepy groans..
Just her—peaceful, unbothered, and deeply, stubbornly asleep.
His jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to her face again, taking in the absurd calm on her features while outside, his badi dadi, the last person he wanted knocking right now-stood waiting.
But She..She was completely unaware of the storm brewing outside... or the one inside him.
He bent down, close enough to feel the soft & warm puff of her breath against his skin. It only made it worse, the contrast of her calm and his rising storm.
"Hey..." he whispered, a bite slipping into the urgency. "Someone's at the door. Wake. Up."
Nothing.
No response. Not even the flicker of awareness.
She was still. Undisturbed. Gone so deep into sleep..
He exhaled sharply, annoyance curling through his chest. Leaning closer, he tapped her cheek—not soft, not hard, but firm enough to mean wake up now.
"Rida," he snapped under his breath, voice gritting through clenched teeth.His heart pounding with something more than just impatience "Wake up. Right Now."
Still Nothing..
"I swear to God," he muttered under his breath..He bent lower & gave her a sharper shake—not hard, but not gentle either.
"Are you listening? I said wake up!," he hissed again in a little annoyance, more to the pounding in his chest than to her.
She stirred slightly then went still again..
His frustration cracked. His fingers ran through his hair roughly as he stepped back, looking down at her like she was the source of every nerve crawling under his skin.
He didn't have time for this.
And yet there she was dead asleep, cheek against the pillow, oblivious to all of it.
The knocks grew impatient..
Panic surged beneath his ribs. Time was running out, and she was oblivious to it all. Without a second thought, he slid one arm beneath her knees, the other curving around her back.In one swift motion,he lifted her effortlessly, pulling her into his arms..As he lifted her up, her bun gave up on its battle with sleep.. Silky strands spilled down in slow motion, falling like midnight rain, brushing over his skin with teasing softness, catching against his arm, sliding across his ribs.Her body melted against him instantly..Her head resting comfortably against his chest.Her cheek found the center of him—right above his heart & settled like it knew the rhythm. Like she had always belonged there.The feel of her skin on his, even in this rush, was a dangerous..
For a moment, he froze-not from hesitation, but from the sheer cinematic beauty of it. Her scent-a mild jasmine mixed with the sleepy warmth of her presence drifted up to him.It hit him like a sucker punch to every rule he'd built around her.Her arms hung limply, but there was something in the way she fit against him that felt too right, too perfect.
He looked down at her for a brief second..His fingers tightened instinctively, holding her closer, as he carried her toward the bed—The very bed he had so firmly declared was his and his alone.A space she would never have a place in..And yet, here he was, breaking his own line with trembling hands as he gently laid her on the bed—Uninvited & covered her halfway with the blanket.He placed a pillow beside her, blocking her from view, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear and with that final brush of his hand over her hair, he turned to open the door, his heart still racing, louder now than the knocking itself.
The door creaked open.
She stood there..Wrapped in her usual pale cotton shawl, clad in the saree that scream a calm authority clinging to her like second skin. No emotion softened her features, no kindness warmed her eyes. Just silence & a gaze that landed on him like cold iron.
It had always been like this with her.
He stood still at the door, the air between them taut with unsaid things.
Her eyes skimmed over his face. No flicker of surprise at seeing him bare-chested.. No frown. No concern.
Nothing..
His jaw clenched instinctively. He blinked-once & whatever expression had momentarily cracked through vanished behind stoic calm. A practiced mask. The one he always wore around her.Then, without waiting for her to speak, he bent down..He knew she wouldn't stretch her hand forward easily. She never had. Never would.
So he didn't wait.
He touched her feet in silence, brushed the cool fabric of her sari's hem, then rose to stand again, tall and composed..
Her eyes didn't linger on him more than a second or two.They glided past his shoulder, beyond his bare arm toward the figure half-hidden beneath a blanket.
There was no reaction. No gasp. No raised brow.Only a long, unreadable pause as she looked at the sleeping girl on his bed.
She wasn't the kind of woman who raised her voice, nor did she ever defend or nurture in ways others expected. She didn't believe in ideal mothers-in-law or saintly daughters-in-law.Everyone had a role. And hers? Commanding quiet control, without needing to lift a single word above neutral.
And then, in that same cold, flat voice-unshaken, perfectly neutral-she said,
"Hawan mein tumhari patni bhi shamil hogi... agar iss ghar ka hissa hai toh zimmedaari nibhaani padegi."
(Your wife will attend the hawan... if she's part of this family, she must uphold its responsibilities.)
She turned her head slightly, eyes cutting to the housemaid behind her.
A quiet summons.
Nancy stepped forward with the silver tray with carved edges, balanced in her delicate hands..The tray gleamed with quiet grandeur-lined in silk, every fold precise, every element arranged like it belonged to royalty.A sheer, bronze-tinted silk veil was draped over the top-gossamer-thin, whispering of decadence, letting the contents beneath glow faintly in the soft light.
A light bluish saree shimmered from beneath the veil-not loud, but luminous, silver-thread jaal work-intricate vines and lotuses glimmering on it without garish shine.You didn't need to touch it to know it cost more than most people made in a year.It was kind of fabric that whispered wealth without screaming for it.Beside it, nestled in carved velvet insets, lay a velvet-lined set-diamond-cut traditional bangles, pair of anklets with delicate chimes, a fine clutch, and a statement choker-pearls intertwined with gold filigree with emerald..
Nothing was overdone. Nothing was loud. Every piece knew its worth.
It wasn't displayed... it was presented-as if even the tray itself bore the weight of the family name.
Nancy paused at the threshold.
She bowed her head slightly-not as a sign of affection, but the practiced courtesy reserved for someone who must be respected, even if feared.
She did not meet his eyes-because no one held Prakhar Singh Rathod's gaze unless invited. Especially not when he stood like this-bare-chested, hair damp from sweat and routine, silence coiling around him like a storm waiting for the right wind.
She moved gracefully, like she'd been trained to walk without a sound on marble, and gently placed the tray on the table near the bed-careful not to disturb the blanket that shielded the sleeping form beneath.
There she lay, breathing calmly, lashes brushing her cheeks like whisper, her lips unconsciously formed into a soft little pout-peaceful, untouched by the tension in the room.A strand of hair had slipped across her temple, rising and falling with each breath, too deep in sleep
The sound of a single bangle brushing against another echoed like a chime in the silence.
Then she turned and vanished...
Badi Dadi's voice sliced through the quiet. Cold. Controlled. Coated in ice.
"I don't think she needs approvals."
Her tone didn't rise. But it didn't need to.
It held the weight of a hundred unsaid things.
She didn't spare him a glance after that.
She simply turned on her heel, slippers clicking faintly against the floor, her exit as deliberate as her entrance.
Leaving behind silence.
He shut the door behind, the click echoing a little too loud in the thick silence she left behind.
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
He exhaled, slowly. And turned.
Only to be greeted by the most maddening sight of all-
her.
Still curled up beneath the blanket sprawled carelessly across his bed like she belonged..One arm tossed over the pillow, her cheek pressing into it like it was her personal sanctuary.
Fast asleep.
Peacefully. Beautifully.
He stepped closer.
His eyes landed on that stubborn little pout of hers—the one she probably didn't even know she made in her sleep.
He clenched his jaw, frustration twisting in his gut like a knot he couldn't unravel.
"God, you're such a pain," he muttered, voice low and rough with irritation.
His gaze traced the quiet rebellion she radiated, the way her lashes rested softly against her cheeks,the gentle rise and fall of her chest,hair tousled messily across the pillow, her relaxed posture, the careless way she took up his space like she owned it,the sheer, infuriating ease with which she occupied his space—his world.
Every detail was a silent provocation, a quiet rebellion against his well-guarded composure.
His chest rose & tightened as he spun on his heel and headed toward the bathroom, his voice trailing behind him, barely audible
"Can't even get a minute of peace..."
................
The golden morning sun spilled across the sprawling courtyard, kissing the marble floor where helpers shuffled around with precision. The air smelled of sandalwood, fresh mogra, and a sense of occasion. Brass thals gleamed. The havan samagri had already been arranged meticulously.
At the center of the bustle stood Kanak, dressed in her muted silk saree, her elegance untouched by age, instructing the helpers with an effortless authority.
"Pushpanjali ke phool alag se rakhna.. Baatne wala saman alag se Gaadi mein rkhwa do..Aur haan Dev ki wheelchair ke aas paas koi cheez nhi rehni chahiye."
And just outside, beneath the filtered sunlight brushing against the porch, a tower of control and calm, clad in a crisp black tailored suit stood.
Prakhar Singh Rathod.
One hand shoved in his pocket, the other loosely holding his phone close to his ear...White shirt. Shoes shined like mirror....Eyes distant. Expression unreadable. Everything about him screamed restraint, precision, and something just this close to dangerous.
Her words flowing like routine but gaze kept fitting on him..
After he cut the call & stood by his car, she walked up to him with a smile playing on her lips.
She spoke softly almost teasing, "Congratulations, beta."
He looked at her, puzzled.
"For what?", his brow pinched...
Her smile deepened, eyes glinting.
"Chachu ban gaye ho tum..."
It took a second to register. And then it landed on him. His lips parted. A dry breath escaped, but no words came.
Navya.
She was in labor. And he... hadn't known.
For a moment, his mind blanked. Then boiled.
That bastard.
Rishab.
He told him...
He told him looking square into his eyes & made it clear—when Navya goes into labor, Call Me. No matter it was midnight or storming or chaos all around. Call me.
Not because Rishab wasn't capable. He knew it damn well that Rishab was Strong, Powerful & more than enough to protect her, to be there.
But because she wasn't just Rishab's wife. She was his sister.
Not by blood—but by something even stronger. She had tied that rakhi to his wrist the year she cried about not having a brother & in that moment, he'd made her a silent promise he never said out loud.
That he would be one.
And that day, without saying a word, he'd taken that role. With every fibre of his being.
That she would never feel that emptiness again.
He swore to protect her. To show up when it mattered.
And he had missed the most important moment of her life.
His jaw locked, a vein twitching near his temple. His grip around the phone tightened until his knuckles whitened.
His mother's gaze didn't waver. She could read him like an open book, "Don't get furious..You didn't tell him that you're back."
His voice lowered, velvet threaded with steel—calm, yet carrying shadows.
“How’s Navya… and the baby?”
Kanak replied softly, "They're fine.It's a boy. I visited on my way back from your office. You were in that investor meeting...So, I didn't interrupt.."
He opened his mouth to say something—maybe to ask more, maybe to curse Rishab, but then a soft clinking sound broke the air.
A gentle jingle of payal and bangles, like the breeze had learned to sing and the hush it cast over him was instant.
Their heads turned.
There she was.
Rida.
Draped in a sky-blue saree so regal it made the morning look pale.The fabric kissed her waist with reverence, every pleat falling like a verse.Her bangles glimmered with the rhythm of light, soft and mesmerizing.Her hair fell loose down her hips, dark as midnight ink on a silk scroll.A tiny bindi nestled between her brows, and modest earrings winked from her ears.The mangalsutra sat perfectly on her collarbone—it didn’t just look perfect. It looked personal. Like it whispered his name every time it moved..And like the final stroke of a master’s painting, was the soft line of sindoor parting her hair—a whisper of belonging, bold in its simplicity.Nothing about her was extravagant.Just—
Serenity.
Wrapped in fire.
Each step made her anklets sing, each movement a breeze over his carefully built indifference.
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched.
His mother saw it—the moment her son's breath hitched..She glanced at him & held back a knowing smile. Her son didn't say a word, but the silence screamed louder than any confession.
Rida hadn’t noticed them yet.She stood at the threshold, thal in hand, the morning light catching the soft shimmer of her saree.She was just about to step out when—
“Your phone, bhabhi! I got it for you!”
Shivansh’s voice rang out behind her, teasing.
Startled, she turned—
Her hip-length hair swayed with her, like dark satin caught in a sudden breeze, brushing gently along her curves.
He reached her in a few strides, effortlessly taking the thal from her hands.
“Come on, give it. I’ll keep it in the car.”
She chuckled softly, a light little sound that lingered for a moment—
Then disappeared back inside with a flutter of pallu and perfume.
As the faint echo of her bangles faded, his mother cleared her throat meaningfully beside him.
“Something happened?” she asked, arching a brow.
“You went weirdly silent.”
He didn't respond. Just shook his head..
They all emerged soon after..Dev seated in his customized wheelchair had Akansha & Rida beside him, managing everything he'd need.
Prakhar's eyes found her again.
Not staring.
Just watching.
And denying it to himself.
When Badi Dadi appeared, Rida stepped forward, instinctively bending to touch her feet.But before she did, she raised a graceful hand, adjusting her pallu over her head—an old gesture of reverence, done with such poise it looked effortless.
And in that single motion—
Something flashed at her waist.
His eyes caught it.
A waistchain.
Delicate. Silver. Feminine.
And entirely too distracting.
His gaze dropped for the briefest second—
Just a moment—
But it burned itself into his memory like sin dressed in silk.
He turned away, jaw tightening, as if punishing himself for looking at something not meant for him.
But it was too late.
His mind had already traced the curve where silver met skin.
She bent, touching Badi Dadi’s feet with grace only she seemed to possess.
Badi dadi looked down at her, her voice calm but unyielding..
“Always covering your head isn’t mandatory,” she said, firm yet fair.
“I don’t care for old rules—just hold the values. That’s what matters.”
Rida lifted her gaze with a soft nod, a hint of surprise flickering in her eyes..
Everyone began settling into the cars.
Rida was walking toward the Mercedes Akansha was climbing into, her steps calm, composed—until—
“Why are you going in that car, beta? Go with Prakhar.”
Dadi’s voice, firm but unsuspecting, landed like a stone in still water.
She froze.
Mid-step.
A tiny falter in her rhythm. Just enough to make the silence echo.
But Prakhar's reply came before she could even breathe through the moment.
“You all go first. I’ll follow.”
His voice—even, calm, and final.
No questions. No warmth.
Just a wall dressed in civility.
There was no room for argument.
No space for suggestion.
The message was loud.
He didn’t want her beside him.
Even Badi Dadi’s gaze flicked to him—a moment too long, unreadable in expression…
Akansha, ever the fixer, slipped in with a bright smile, voice laced in mischief, trying to sew back the air that had torn,
“Come on, bhabhi! Shivansh will chew my ears off if you don’t ride with me!”
Rida blinked once, then nodded with a soft smile..
The convoy began pulling through the wide gates one by one—
Luxury cars in perfect rhythm, moving like a quiet procession of power.
Not hurried. Not loud.
Just poised.
And then—
Five minutes later, a sleek black Mercedes Maybach slipped onto the road, gliding with purpose.
Effortless. Powerful. Silent.
The other cars parted on either sides instinctively with quiet respect, like the sea bowing to royalty. Not horns..No Signals..Just Presence..
The kind of presence that kneel made the silence kneel..
Prakhar's car took its place behind the line of cars that carried his family, forming the last link in a silent chain of protection..
The rear of the convoy was his place.
Not in front. Not in the centre.
Behind. Watching. Guarding.
He sat inside.
One hand resting on the steering wheel—
Eyes fixed forward.
Unmoving.
Unbothered.
Unshaken.
But every inch of him radiated presence.
Like a lion at rest—still, but far from safe.
The kind of stillness that held storms behind it.
Then—his fingers moved on his phone.
He dialled a number..
The screen flashed: KAIZAN.
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The man on the other end knew what the call is meant for so he spoke, "DONE"
And the call ended..
Kaizan Chevalier wasn't just a bodyguard. He was a shadow. Appointed by Prakhar's mother for his protection but she doesn't know what Kaizan had become over time..He didn’t guard Prakhar. He worked for him.With him. Moved like instinct—unspoken, unseen, unfaltering.
There was no loyalty proclaimed between them.Just a rhythm.A code.
Kaizan didn’t need orders.He felt them.
He didn’t need clarity.He understood the weight behind silence, the intent behind a glance, the threat layered in a pause.
He had become Prakhar’s most trusted man—
not by oath,
but by action.
By being the kind of presence that didn’t speak unless the storm needed a voice.
By being the one who could walk into fire without asking why.
He was an extension.
Of Prakhar’s will. Of his ruthlessness.
Of the empire he commanded without raising his voice.
Every year, during this ritual visit, Prakhar cleared the roads before their cars moved an inch. Silently. Strategically..
Made sure every route, every corner, every path was safe..He clears half the temple grounds hours before sunrise making the crowd around the temple thinned, the area—sanctified. Still, he left a few devotees. A few uncles, a mother with a child, a baba with a mala... enough to keep the illusion breathing. His family wouldn't suspect. Couldn't. Shouldn't.
Let them believe this was all natural.
Let them feel safe—without ever knowing why.
He assigned watchers in plain clothes.
He disguised protection as coincidence.
He left traces of threat behind—just enough to not arouse suspicion.
And this time!!
Even Tighter..
Because she was there..
His family didn't know that—It was him..
Not because he was paranoid.
Because he understood power.
For him it was devotion.
The kind that didn't wear a crown or wave a flag.
It didn’t ask to be known.
It simply was—
The kind that watched from behind, unseen.
That would burn the world before letting harm come close.
............
The line of luxury cars pulled over to the temple courtyard one after another, their engines purring to silence like well-trained beasts. From the first car, the elders stepped out—draped in grace and old-world dignity..
Rudra was already there.
Dressed in a sharp grey suit that hugged every line of his strength. His face carried that usual stoic sharpness— unreadable, focused.The moment he spotted the elders, he moved forward bending to touch their feet with respectful precision.They placed their hands on his head in blessing, but his eyes briefly flicked toward the cars still arriving.
Then Kanak Singh Rathod, stepped out of the car— poised in an cream silk saree with rubies glinting at her ears, eyes sharp and proud. Her expression softened the second she saw Rudra.
She walked straight to him and pulled him into a warm, motherly embrace, hands resting against his back for a beat longer than custom.He murmured something only she heard. She smiled, the kind that carried history and unspoken things.
Then, Rudra turned and stepped towards the car again—this time, to help Dev.
Rudra immediately crouched, adjusted the footrest, wheeled the chair closer gently helping Dev. In his wheelchair, Dev looked both fragile and regal.
At that exact moment, chaos arrived.
From the third car, Akansha stormed out mid-sentence, her bangles clinking wildly, "I told you not to touch my phone! You broke it.."
Behind her, Shivansh came tumbling out, looking completely unbothered.
"Not a big deal! Bhai will get you a new one in just ten minutes.So, Stop The Drama Now!!"
Their bickering echoed through the temple entrance, earning a sharp side-eye from Kanak..
And then came her.
Rida.
She stepped out quietly —calm in the storm.
She looked serene, graceful, composed. She adjusted fabric across her shoulder, her gaze quickly finding Dev, already halfway wheeled forward by Rudra.
Without a word, she walked up and placed her hand gently on the wheelchair handle. "I'll take him inside," she said softly.
Rudra paused, then stepped aside.
Behind them, the helpers had begun unloading trays, brass vessels, flowers, and offerings from the cars. The elders were already stepping inside, and chants had begun to echo faintly from within.
Then came the final car.
It glided to a stop, the door opening with a click that silenced the remaining noise.
Prakhar stepped out of it.
His gaze immediately found Rida— wheeling Dev forward with steady hands, her face turned away from him.
And then—
It landed on Rudra, who had already walked forward to greet him.
Rudra approached him , a hint of a rare smile tugging at his lips.
"Good morning, Bhai."
Prakhar's arm came around him, palm landing on his back, tapping in that firm, protective way that said more than any sentence could.
"You didn't need to come this early," he murmured.
Rudra leaned back, meeting his brother's eyes with a calm edge, "I know."
Prakhar shrugged of his coat & tossed it carelessly back into the car, rolled his sleeves up slightly & started walking toward the temple with Rudra by his side.
And as they entered—
The family had already taken their places.
Chants had begun.The temple air was thick with incense, devotion, oil-lamp smoke curling like silent prayers and faint tension..
Rida was already helping Dev settle comfortably near the priest.
She didn't turn when Prakhar walked past her.But his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than needed...
She sat near Akansha..
Rudra was already ahead, bowing with folded hands toward the idol, then taking his seat..
Prakhar stepped forward, his gait smooth, shoulders square, eyes fixed ahead. Not rushed. Not delayed. Just right on time.
Pandit ji was already kneeling before the sanctum, lips murmuring a low chant, holding a folded white dhoti and angavastram reverently between his fingers, pressed to the feet of the deity. A ritual so old, no one questioned its purpose. The vermillion from the idol's feet had stained one corner of the angavastram, like a mark of silent acceptance.
As Prakhar approached, the pandit looked up—just once, then continued the chant, brushing sacred basil water gently across the cloth as if sealing the god's touch into its threads. Then, with both hands raised, he offered it to Prakhar.
He took it without needing instruction. He did this every year. He knew what it meant.
He walked silently toward the side room to change. Only Shivansh's usual humming footsteps echoed lightly behind him.
And when he returned...
The shift was subtle but noticeable.
Lower body wrapped in the sacred white dhoti, pleats crisp, tucked with minimalistic grace.The same white shirt still on, buttoned but rolled up slightly at the sleeves, making the whole look somehow... regal yet raw.
An air of someone who had power but didn't flaunt it..
Rida's eyes flicked up.
Only for a second.
But in that second, she noticed everything—the way the light from the temple lamps caught the curve of his throat. The way the dhoti hugged his frame like a second skin from another century. That aura he wore like second nature..The quiet power in the way he walked barefoot across temple stone, shirt softly brushing against his frame, dhoti whispering with every stride.
He passed her without pause—
But his eyes?Just for a breath, flicked in her direction.
Not for a moment too long.
But long enough to say : I saw you.
At the front, Pandit ji was already waiting.
He walked toward the havan kund, where a simple square seat of white cloth waited for him, ringed in kusha grass, copper kalash aligned on the right, sesame seeds and pure ghee set in brass bowls.His name had been written in vermillion just at the corner of the seat—a son performing rituals for his ancestors..Then Pandit ji stood before him, holding the sacred white thread—the Yajnopavita—between both hands.It gleamed faintly, almost weightless, yet the moment carried centuries of tradition.
A tradition. A tether. A rite that connected the son to his ancestors.
"Shirt utariye, beta," the priest instructed gently.
Prakhar didn't hesitate. With one smooth movement, he undid the buttons, slipped the shirt off his shoulders, while seated-back straight, jaw locked with quiet grace..The fabric slipped from his shoulders revealing his sculpted muscle—broad, thick-set shoulders, carved with silent strength.
The kind of strength not just built, but born from discipline.
His chest, wide and powerful, rose and fell in a quiet rhythm.Under the warm orange glow of the havan fire, his skin glistened faintly—every line of muscle defined, every vein a whisper of the warrior he kept hidden beneath the boardroom suits.He handed the shirt behind him—intending for Shivansh to take it.
But chaos, being Shivansh's middle name, didn't stop to see where he passed it..Shivansh turned to hand it to the first person he saw.
Which, unfortunately—or perhaps fatefully—happened to be Rida.
That freshly worn shirt landed in her lap.
She startled...Eyes wide. Breath shallow.
Her fingers curled around the soft, warm cloth that still carried the faint heat of his skin and the scent of leather, crisp—something darkly, utterly him.
Her eyes locked briefly on the fabric..
Her heartbeat thudded loud, her breath catching so faintly that even she didn’t realize.
Meanwhile, Prakhar remained still.
Pandit ji carefully wrapped the Yojanapavita across his bare torso diagonally from left shoulder to opposite waist...
Prakhar took angavastram in his hands, then draped it over his shoulder, letting its two long ends fall across his front, framing his chest—not fully covering, just brushing the edges of muscle and collarbone. His bare skin peeking through in places the cloth didn’t quite reach.The sacred thread still visible.
It wasn't a display. Not a performance.
But somehow, still—striking.
His body now carried tradition.
His face carried silence.
Rida seated behind, still holding his shirt.Her eyes, unwilling at first, betrayed her.They lifted. Just slightly.
Enough to catch the way thread rose with the firm expansion of his chest—the rise slow, deliberate, admirable. The way the it stretched over his collarbone. The way his muscles flexed when he brought his hands together in a soft namaskar to the flames..
Every line of him screamed power.
But not once did he look around to see who was watching.
And yet...
She was.
Every inch of her attention was there —dragged to him without force. Just like how wind pulls at flame.
And how silence screams louder than any declaration..
Beside him, Rudra whispered something to the priest, handing over an extra set of offerings.
But Prakhar?
He didn't move..
He sat, cross-legged, bare-chested, calm.Yet from across the ritual fire, even without his shirt, with only an angavastram shielding him—He looked like the most armored man in the world.
And somewhere behind him her fingers curled tighter around his shirt..
The mantras rose and fell in sacred rhythm. The fire cracked, swallowing each offering like a vow. Smoke curled upward—slow and silent— like the echo of every unsaid prayer in the family line..
...........
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